


Life Drawing

by LinneaLund



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinneaLund/pseuds/LinneaLund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where the nuclear war never happened. Same time, same place, same people, just a whole lot of civilization in between:  Bellamy gets himself into a tricky situation during a poker game and has to pay back Clarke Griffin in a way he never expects...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Drawing

**_Life Drawing_ **

At the poker game, it’s the blonde woman who unnerves Bellamy. She’s laughing as she plays, her long legs and full breasts under the tight black tank top a serious distraction. _A civilian,_ Bellamy observes. _Not a guardsman._ He shifts his cards – a good enough hand, but one he’s going to have to improve in order to make it to the end – watching her across the table.

Her long hair falls in a tangle over her shoulders, a lock of it nestled in the hollow between her breasts. Bellamy shifts uncomfortably and looks away, trying not to stare, but with the whiskey they’ve been drinking, that’s getting harder by the minute. Problem is, you see, she’s sitting on another guardsman’s lap, and the two of them are directly across from Bellamy. The dark-haired guard – a veteran of the Ton DC police force named Lexa - is tall and muscled, but it’s the badges on her jacket Bellamy notices. One identifies her as ‘heda’ - the official title for a high-ranking squadron leader - the other names her posting as the Trikru quadrant of the massive super-city that spreads the entire coast of the Eastern US.

Bellamy, on the other hand, is barely out of the training program and a heda like Lexa is exactly the kind of person he doesn’t want to piss off. He pulls his eyes away from the nameless woman and stares at his cards.

The blonde laughs and he looks back up. Lexa smirks, but doesn’t comment and Bellamy drops his gaze down again. _Don’t want trouble_. Bellamy’s predicament is that he doesn’t know how to _stop_ looking at the blonde sitting in Lexa’s lap. The next round of poker begins.

“I’m in,” Lexa says with a nod. “Bet’s to you, Clarke.”

_Clarke,_ Bellamy’s mind repeats, eyes drifting back to her once more. He knows her name now. (He wants to know everything _else_ too.) Clarke makes a humming noise in the back of her throat as if undecided, then leans forward, grabbing another card from the pile. Bellamy swallows hard. The motion has given him a clear view down into the recesses of her tank top. She’s not wearing a bra.

“I’m in,” she answers with a laugh, sitting back up and settling back into Lexa’s arms.

“Bellamy?” Murphy, Bellamy’s roommate, prompts. Bellamy clears his dry throat, fighting to regain focus. Glancing around the other people at the tables – guardsmen and civilians alike – he decides to go from the gut.

“Uh... yeah. Yeah, I’m in.”

He needs to keep his mind on his cards, but it’s getting harder by the minute. Clarke’s mouth, for one, is a trap, and Bellamy’s attention is caught in it. Her tongue flicks out as she picks up each card, shuffling them one over the other. She nibbles her lower lip when she’s lost in thought, and the corners curve up playfully whenever someone makes a joke. Bellamy could sit here all night and do nothing but think about what he wants to _do_ to that mouth. He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, forcing his body under control. That’s _not_ why he’s here.

He’s here to win.

The pot of tonight’s game is a big one. A win like this and he’ll have a year’s tuition ready for his ‘someday’ plan. It’s not for him, of course, Bellamy’s already played his own hand and has a good job. It’s for his sister, Octavia. She’s the second child – a privilege no American is allowed to have – and her birth, seventeen years before, an outrage. She has no recourse, no employment ability, no health care… nothing. But Bellamy intends to change all this. He frowns, remembering the years he’s spent trying to balance the odds for his sister. A win like this could change things.

_Octavia’d have a chance for a good life._

The play continues on; Murphy and the other guardsmen are punted. And then the table’s down to just the three of them, Clarke, Bellamy and Lexa, the pot a mountain of bank notes and coins before them. Clarke has moved into her own chair now, her cards tight against her chest. Lexa’s hand rests on Clarke’s knee. Her smirk has faded into a scowl, her eyeliner smeared by her fingers until it’s a hazy ring of shadow around both eyes. She’s angry about something – clearly – but Bellamy doesn’t know what.

Lexa drops her hand from Clarke’s knee and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “I’m in for fifty units.” She nods to Bellamy as she lights it. “You in, Blake?”

Bellamy glances down at his hand once more. With all the distraction, he’s barely been aware of what he’s been bidding. Seeing it now, he fights the urge to gasp. For whatever reason fate has smiled on him. He’s got a flush; the second highest hand in poker. He blinks. _I’m going to win._

“I’m in,” Bellamy answers tightly, reaching into his pocket. “What was the bid again?”

“Fifty,” Clarke answers. Her eyes narrow. “You in?”

Lexa takes a long drag on her cigarette, blowing bitter smoke in his direction. Bellamy pulls up a wad of units. As he unwraps them he sees that he’s only got twenty and change left.

“Fuck, it,” Bellamy growls, “I’m dry. I’ll have to—”

“I’ll cover you,” Clarke interrupts before he can finish.

He frowns, confused. One part of his brain is screaming at him to notice that Lexa’s hand on Clarke’s knee is white-knuckled. _There’s a second game going on here tonight._ But Bellamy’s too lost in Clarke’s eyes to wonder what that means. They’re silver-blue, like the sky just after dawn.

“Y-you’ll what?”

She smiles, the expression drawing him in.

“I’ll cover you for the rest,” she says, and shrugs. “But I get to choose how you pay me back.”

“ _If_ I lose,” Bellamy corrects.

Clarke’s smile widens, sparks of attraction filling the air as her gaze goes from Bellamy to his body and back up again. “Ifyou lose,” she amends, “but if you _do,_ then I choose the payback.”

Lexa’s angry expression grows bemused as she watches the interaction. Bellamy is suddenly intrigued by the idea that Clarke might not actually be Lexa’s girlfriend, but _just a friend_ or a friend with benefits. Perhaps it’s the whiskey talking, but the thought is all it takes to change his attitude. He’s suddenly desperate to get Clarke’s number before the night is out. But first, this poker game needs to come to a close.

“So what’re you doing, _yonguns_?” Lexa asks with a chuckle, lifting the cigarette from the corner of her mouth and gesturing between the two of them. “You in or you out? I don’t have all night. I’m back on patrol in six hours.”

“In,” both answer.

Lexa picks up another card and her expression tightens. “I call.”

Bellamy can feel the excitement pulsing through his veins. This is it: _the win that changes everything_. He lays down his cards on the table.

“Flush,” he answers gleefully.

Across from him, Clarke scowls. “You’re such a fucker,” she mutters under her breath, then lays down her hand. “Three pair.”

Lexa’s expression changes, growing sharper somehow. Less amenable, more street smart. She drops her cards face up.

“Royal flush,” she says and gives Bellamy a wide smile. Her teeth flash white, predatory. “Pay up, Bellamy Blake.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Clarke is slated to pick Bellamy up from the guardsman post in the Skaikru quadrant of the super-city on Saturday morning. Bellamy’s waiting at the main entrance gates, his heart in his throat. He feels like he’s lost more than just the money in the game. (The thirty units he offered to give her on the phone, but she refused to take.)

_“Uh-uh, Bellamy,”_ she’d argued, _“You’re going to pose for me. That was the deal. I don’t want your goddamned money.”_

_“But why?”_

_“It’s the perfect situation,”_ she’d explained with a snort. “ _I need a model for life drawing, and mine just bailed.”_

The question had been out before he’d thought better of it. _“Why’d he cancel?”_

_“He’s a she… And Lexa cancelled because her squadron got moved. She’s out of town the next few weeks.”_

_“Why?”_

_“There was an uprising in the Mount Weather quadrant. She’s bringing in the big guns…”_

Standing here now, Bellamy frowns, shifting from foot to foot as he waits for her to arrive. Clarke’s already told him she drives a black truck. She’s also assured him that she’ll be there at noon. (It’s already fifteen after.) He glances up at the sky. It’s a bright, unyielding blue, the moisture from the ocean making the already hot day unbearable. Interstellar shuttles dart like needles across the fabric of the atmosphere. His neck and the tips of his ears prickle with sunburn, his back itching as a trickle of sweat draws a line down the centre of his spine.

“Five more minutes,” he mutters under his breath, “and then I’m out of here.”

At four minutes, he hears a sound. From the far end of the tree-lined street there’s the roar of an engine. He narrows his eyes, watching as a military-surplus truck careens down the avenue toward him. Bellamy takes an involuntary step backward, eyes wide. The tires screech and she slides to a stop in front of him, leaning across the seats and pulling open the door with a squeal.

“Sorry I’m late, Bellamy,” she says with a grin that erases any trace of his annoyance. “Got stuck in a line at the liquor store.”

Bellamy doesn’t ask, just climbs in.

“No problem,” he says, tossing his bag on the floor. It’s cluttered with paint supplies and leftover coffee cups. Bellamy shoves them aside with his foot, sliding across the cracked vinyl of the seat and turning toward Clarke.

“Good to see you again. I thought you were ditching me,” he says, offering his hand.

Clarke smirks. “Not a chance.” She stares at him openly, her gaze lingering on his chest and arms, then finally drifting lazily up to his face.

“What...?” Bellamy asks nervously. His hand is still hanging in the air between them, waiting for her handshake.

“Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “I’m just admiring the goods.” Bellamy blushes as she continues. “Your body’s as nice as I’d remembered.”

“Wh- what?”

She tips her head to the side. “I’m just saying it’ll be nice to have someone so... attractive to draw.”

Bellamy makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and Clarke giggles. Suddenly she’s all business again. She reaches out, taking his hand in a brusque motion and shaking it.

“And since you’re being all formal today. I’m Clarke... Clarke Griffin,” she says with a wink, “but you already knew that.” She slams the vehicle into gear. “Now hold on, Bellamy, ‘cause this afternoon is mine and I intend to use every minute.”

: : : : : : : : : :

Bellamy sits atop the pile of draped fabric, his body tensed and anxious. At the guardsman barracks, nudity in the showers is ignored, but he’s definitely never posed in front of someone before. The experience is unnerving.

He sits, trying in vain _not_ to look at the woman who’s wandering barefoot around the studio, humming along to the buzzing radio. He doesn’t _want_ to notice how beautiful Clarke is. Doesn’t want to notice that her legs are tanned and muscled, the length of them visible below a pair of paint-flecked cut-offs. Doesn’t want to notice the faint shadow of a bra visible under a white tank so threadbare it’s almost transparent. Every detail is torture. _Not going to look,_ his mind hisses, but his eyes betray him anyhow, following her path as she gathers charcoal and a drawing board, dragging them over to a the centre of the room.

“You should relax,” she says to him, not even lifting her eyes. She lays out a piece of unblemished newsprint across the drawing board, holding it in place with a clip on each corner.

“Relax?”

This time Clarke does look up, and she smiles. “Your shoulders are gonna kill tomorrow,” she says with a chuckle. “Seriously, Bellamy... I know.” Her expression softens. “I’ve posed before. It’s harder work than it seems.”

Suddenly _that_ is the image in Bellamy’s head. Clarke... naked... spread eagle in an overheated room. _No!_ his mind shouts in panic. He closes his eyes for several long seconds, breathing slowly. He thinks about his father and their last argument. About his grandmother Blake’s funeral. About his dog, Bandit, who died when Bellamy was eight. He’s so lost in the thought of all these things that he jumps when something very cold brushes his arm. He blinks in shock to see that Clarke’s grabbed a beer and is holding it out to him.

“It’s an oven in here, even with the windows open,” she says with a grin. “Want one?”

“Sure,” Bellamy says in a voice that’s far too tight.

He takes hold of the bottle’s neck, tipping it up and letting it pour down his throat. Clarke pulls over a strangely shaped chair – almost like a small saw horse – and straddles it, placing the drawing board against a prop before her. Bellamy makes the mistake of glancing up, suppressing a groan. Sitting like this – straddling the drawing seat, the line of her panties visible on the interior of her thigh – she’s too attractive. He winces, closing his eyes once more, denying his body a physical pain. Clarke, it seems, notices.

“You all right?” she asks, as her fingers dip into the tool box, selecting out a piece of vine charcoal and starting to sketch.

“Yup.” Bellamy says tightly. “Just fine.”

Clarke smirks, and doesn’t answer, and for a long time, there is only the sound of charcoal scratching over the page as she fills sheet after sheet of paper. The time passes slowly, with Bellamy nursing his beer, grateful of the relief and the slight buzz of alcohol. Sometime near two, Clarke stands up, stretching her back, and suggests Bellamy do the same. He frowns, not quite sure he wants to stand up in front of her, but Clarke hardly notices. She wanders away and in minutes, she’s back with another beer, and more paper. She hangs her drawings around the studio and for the first time Bellamy realizes just how gifted she is at drawing.

The faded sheets are full of images. They are gesture lines, simple shapes that echo like ripples in water. If Bellamy squints, however, he can definitely see himself in them. The shape of his shoulders, the weight of his arms.

“That’s pretty cool,” Bellamy says with an admiring grin. “They actually look like me.”

Clarke snorts.

“I’m only warming up,” she retorts, and the posing begins again.

The next time she stops – another beer, more paper – she’s got fully drawn renderings. They are built out of light and shadow, the charcoal hatchmarks forming planes of muscle out of the barren paper. They remind Bellamy of some of the Rennaissance sketches he’s seen at the National Art Gallery in the Ton DC quadrant. The artist is a woman – he knows that – but he can’t for the life of him remember her name. Clarke grins when he mentions it, nudging another bottle of now-lukewarm beer into his open palm.

“You’re talking about Artemisia Gentileschi, aren’t you?” she asks in surprise. “They have a whole section on her.”

“That’s it! Just couldn’t remember her name.”

“Most people don’t even know about her.” She chuckles. “Everyone just remembers DaVinci and the male Renaissance instead.” She nods. “Colour me impressed, Blake.”

Her smile warms him, leaving Bellamy grinning in return. She’s sitting on the bench beside him and Bellamy angles his body away from her, fighting down a reaction to her nearness.

“Yeah, well... I was a bit of a bookworm as a kid,” he admits in embarrassment, dropping his chin. “Kind of lived in the library and museum.”

“That’s cool,” she says with a nod. “I love museums too.” Clarke’s smile fades into something more poignant. “They remind me of my dad.”

She doesn’t explain the comment and Bellamy doesn’t ask, and then she’s drawing once more, the late afternoon light filling the studio, lifting the temperature even higher. Clarke has a fan in one corner, but it does nothing other than swirl the sullen air. It’s like everything around them is holding still. _Waiting_ for Bellamy to do something... say something.

Clarke switches to heavier paper, one with a ragged edge. Under half-closed lids, Bellamy watches as she switches to pencils, wiping her hands on a damp cloth and then drying them against her shorts, leaving smudges of grey on her ass. He fights down a groan. Seconds later, she slides her drawing stool up next to him, focusing on capturing his face and shoulders, the freckles across his nose. Bellamy holds still, his breath coming in shallow pants.

He’s so determined _not_ to react, that his mind simply rebels. Suddenly he’s grabbing a thousand details at once: The way her knee keeps brushing against the outside of his bare thigh. Her singsong humming whenever she erases a spot. The faint scent of perfume and sweat. The sharp hint of pollution and the sound of distant cars coming in through the open window. Bellamy closes his eyes, flaring his nostrils and breathing slowly. He can’t _keep_ his body from noticing her next to him. The afternoon and the alcohol, and the ease of having her near are tipping the balance out of his favour.

Clarke’s still drawing, but Bellamy’s body’s reaction is getting more and more prominent. He tightens his jaw, a line of muscle jumping in distress. He’s gasping for breath, eyes pressed closed when Clarke seems to _realize_ something’s wrong.

“Bellamy, are you oka—...” but her words fade off halfway.

Bellamy’s eyes are still pressed closed, but he _knows_ whatshe’s seen and that leaves him feeling a thousand types of frustration: At his body for betraying him, at Clarke for being so impossibly fuckable, at the heat of the day, making clothing so impossible, at the alcohol and the scent of her hair, and...

She leans in and kisses him.

: : : : : : : : : :

Somehow Bellamy’s tugged off the last of Clarke’s clothes without breaking the kiss and she lays beneath him now, naked on the tangle of sheets. In the bands of late-afternoon sunlight coming through the windows next to them, her skin is sweat-sheened and golden, a tattoo of a sea creature visible below one hip bone, a tiny symbol he can’t read on the other. Seeing her laid out before him, Bellamy groans in frustration, his body throbbing with need. He drops his mouth to her skin, kissing his way down her neck to her collarbone, sucking and nipping, his fingers tracing the newly-discovered inking. Under him, Clarke’s hips rock and move, her hands skimming over his body, caressing the muscles as she moans.

Bellamy finally reaches her breasts, pulling one peak into his mouth while his fingers roll the other into a pebble. Clarke gasps against his ear, her hands seeking him out, touching him everywhere, driving his attention away from anything other than the need to be inside her. His fingers rove lower, pushing their way impatiently between her folds, finding her wet and ready. His forefinger starts a steady rhythm, leaving her moaning aloud. Bellamy shifts sideways, nudging her thighs apart and Clarke suddenly lurches upward, bumping into his chin.

“Wait a minute,” she hisses, struggling out from underneath him, and jogging across the studio to her pack. She’s back, seconds later, with a condom and she flicks it onto Bellamy’s chest.

When he finishes, she’s waiting for him, crouched on her knees, her body lush and naked before him.

“Lay down,” she purrs, and she pushes Bellamy roughly back on the sheets. She straddles him, reaching between the two of them to take him in hand. In the heat of the room, their bodies feel like they’re already on fire. Her hand slips up and down, tight around his cock and Bellamy moans in reaction, fighting back the urge to come. After hours of denial, the sensation of this is too good, the edge of the abyss too near.

Clarke leans in, her mouth brushing against his lips in a kiss that is almost chaste as she settles herself over top of him and slides all the way down. Bellamy tips his head back, gasping in the sheer relief of being inside her. She’s tight and wet and already moving, her body pistoning above him. Fighting for control, Bellamy’s hand drops down between them, locating the nub of nerves where they join and working in circles, bringing her nearer and nearer to release. His other palm cups her breasts, kneading in time to his thrusting. Clarke’s motions above him grow frantic, her moans rising. Suddenly her back arches and she cries out in relief, dropping down atop his chest, loose-limbed and exhausted.

Bellamy’s hands tighten on her back and hips, flipping her over without stopping. Now he’s in control, his body nearly at the peak, almost ready to join her in release. As the pumping of his hips pick up speed, Clarke’s cries return, her legs hitching around his waist, spreading herself wider as she draws him in.

“Oh god,” she moans into Bellamy’s skin. “So close... keep going, Bellamy! _So close!”_

“Look at me, Princess.” She giggles at the endearment and he slides his fingers around her wrists, holding her hands above her head as he thrusts into her, setting a furious pace. “Open your eyes. Look at me Clarke. Look.”

Her eyes flutter open, the blue almost gone in dilation.

“Kiss me,” she gasps. “Please…”

And then they’re kissing again, mouth and tongues duelling for control until suddenly Clarke tightens down, her attention diverted _elsewhere..._ and then she’s coming hard around him, her body shaking as she cries out a second time, voice loud in his ear.

“Bellamy!”

This time, he’s right there with her, his body shuddering in climax and falling, exhausted, into her open arms.

Outside the buzz of the city continues, but the two of them, laying together, are oblivious. Lost in one another.

: : : : : : : : : :

She drops him off at the main gates two hours later. Bellamy’s got a single drawing of himself, still stinking of fixative, rolled up on the seat beside him. He turns, giving her a lopsided smile.

“So posing,” he says, “that uh... that wasn’t so bad.”

“Fair trade,” Clarke snorts, raising an eyebrow. “You offering to do it again?”

Bellamy pauses for the length of a heartbeat. “If I can buy you supper first.”

There’s a long moment when she says nothing, just stares at him. He expects her to make a joke, but instead she narrows her eyes as if trying to understand something. It’s the expression she’d use whenever the drawing wasn’t _quite_ right this afternoon and she wanted to know why.

“I _guess_ that’d be okay,” she says after a moment.

Bellamy grins.

“Tomorrow night?” he suggests.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Wow... you um... don’t waste time, do you?”

Bellamy leans in, sliding a hand into her hair and kissing her. His fingers linger on her cheek for a moment longer.

“No, Princess. I don’t.”

 


End file.
